Maynemouth, Devonshire, 1890
Ten years later
Alexander,
Accept the invitation to Castle Redmayne.
I’m in danger. I need you.
—Frank
Alexandra Lane had spent the entire train ride from London to Devonshire meticulously pondering those fourteen words for two separate reasons.
The first, she had been unable to stop fretting for Francesca, who tended to give more than the appropriate amount of context. The terse, vague note Alexandra now held was more of a warning than the message contained therein.
The second, she could no longer afford a first-class, private railcar, and had, for the last several tense hours, been forced to share her vestibule face-to-face with a rough-featured, stocky man with shoulders made for labor.
Alone.
He’d attempted polite conversation at first, which she’d rebuffed with equal civility by feigning interest in her correspondence. By now, however, they were both painfully aware she needn’t take four stops to read two letters.
It was terribly rude, she knew. Her carpetbag remained clutched in her fist the entire time, except when her hand would wander into its depths to palm the tiny pistol she always carried. The sounds of the other passengers in adjoining vestibules didn’t make her feel safer, per se.
But she knew they would hear her scream, and that provided some relief.
For a woman who’d spent a great deal of the last ten years in the company of men, she’d thought these painful moments would have relented by now.
Alas, she’d become a mistress of manipulating a situation so, even if she had to endure the company of men without a female companion, there would be more than one man. In the circles she tended to frequent, people behaved when in company.
It had worked thus far.
Alexandra braced herself against the slowing of the train, breathing a silent prayer of relief that they’d finally arrived. She’d been terrified that if she’d glanced up once, she’d be forced into conversation with her unwanted companion.
Rain wept against the coach window, and the shadows of the tears painted macabre little serpents on the conflicting documents in her hands. One, a wedding invitation. The other, Francesca’s alarming note.
A month past, she’d have wagered her entire inheritance against Francesca Cavendish’s being the first of the Red Rogues to capitulate to the bonds of matrimony.
A month past, she’d assumed she’d had an inheritance to wager.
Their little society had seemed destined to live up to the promise they’d once made as young, disenchanted girls to never marry.
Until the invitation to an engagement masquerade—given by the Duke of Redmayne—had arrived the same day of her friend’s cryptic and startling note.
The invitation had been equally as ambiguous, stating that the future duchess of Redmayne would be unveiled, as it were, at the ball. Included in Alexandra’s particular envelope was a request for her to attend as a bridesmaid.
The subsequent plea for help from Francesca—Frank—had arrived in a tiny envelope with the Red Rogue seal they’d commissioned some years prior.
Alexandra hadn’t even known Francesca had returned from her romps about the Continent. Last she’d heard, the countess had been in Morocco, doing reconnaissance of some sort. Nothing in her letters had mentioned a suitor. Not a serious one, in any case. Certainly not a duke.
Francesca had a talent for mischief and a tendency to interpret danger as mere adventure.
So, what could possibly frighten her fearless friend?
Marriage, obviously, Alexandra thought with a smirk. A risky venture, to be sure.
And dangerous.
Alexandra smoothed her traveling skirts, whose smart tweed became more worn and forlorn with each passing year.
She should have taken better care of it. She shouldn’t have taken for granted that her father would always be able to buy her another.
The train trundled up to the Maynemouth platform with a series of lurches, sending the man’s briefcase tumbling from the seat beside him. It landed at her feet before sliding half beneath her skirts.
“Sorry, madam,” he said in heavily accented Continental English as he leaned toward her lap, reaching for the briefcase below her. “I’ll just—”
Alexandra surged to her feet, staggering toward the vestibule door. She burst into the narrow hall, stabilizing herself against the dark wood wainscoting as she passed the more judicious travelers who waited until the train came to a complete stop before disembarking.
Could she have acted more absurd?
Yes. And she had, a multitude of times.
She clung to a rail by the door as the train came to a halt, and leaped into the Devon seastorm the moment the porter opened the door.
She’d forget this interaction, she reminded herself as she sought cover beneath the overhang to wait for her luggage. She always did. Embarrassment was nothing compared to safety.
A half hour later, Alexandra nervously chewed her lip as she stood on the platform, lost in a billow of engine steam and sea mist, ready to debark to the infamous Castle Redmayne.
If Cecelia ever arrived.
The coach was supposed to have met her a quarter hour past, but Alexandra might have known her sweet, disorderly friend would be tardy. As good as the woman was with numbers, a concept as simple as time confounded her. Thus, Cecelia forever functioned a half hour behind the rest of the world.
“You got a chaperone, miss?” The endearingly young, knobby-jointed porter with what appeared to be a penciled-on mustache eyed her impertinently. Smythe, his gleaming name badge christened him. “I got to be about me work, see, but I don’t like to be leaving you alone. We’re running like rats wot with all the toffs arriving for the grand wedding. And … no offense meant, miss, but me mother’s sick, and I’d rather not lose out on the gratuity by standing still.”
By standing next to an impoverished spinster, he didn’t say.
He didn’t have to.
“Of course.” Alexandra didn’t bother to explain that she happened to be one of the bridesmaids in the aforementioned grand wedding. Nor did she inform him of her status as one of the “toffs” to which he referred. It would have been well within her privilege as the daughter of an earl to demand he address her as “my lady” rather than “miss.”
Instead, she gathered a precious ha’penny from the carpetbag she’d acquired in Cairo, and pressed it into the young man’s glove. “Someone will be along to collect me shortly. Thank you.”
She enjoyed a bit of relief when the porter scurried away in search of peerage. Indeed, there were plenty more to be found disembarking the train.
She could attest to that, as she’d been avoiding as many as she could.
In case they’d seen her in second class.
In case they’d heard of her family’s recently reduced circumstances, and felt the need to remark upon their spinster daughter who was now too old, and too clever, to catch a husband.
If they only knew the truth. What would they say then?
It had been heavy carrying one devastating shame around for a decade. She’d underestimated what the weight of a second scandal would do to her.
It would all be over soon, she supposed. The news of her family’s financial ruin wouldn’t stay secret for long. And when what was left of her money ran out, her long-ago transgression would be revealed as a direct result.
Because if one couldn’t pay one’s bills, one certainly couldn’t pay one’s blackmailer.
Better that Francesca marry now and have the designation of duchess when the scandal broke.
And Cecelia, dear kind Cecelia, didn’t have the responsibility of a title, nor did she have the protection of one. Her reputation meant little to her, mostly because she was a rather obscure woman in all but her immediate academic circle.
But reputation was nothing next to the hangman’s noose … and they all might be in danger of that.
Pressing her hand against a pitch of dread in her stomach, Alexandra hid herself behind her meager hill of luggage. A hill because, by comparison, the piles of trunks, hat cases, and garment bags currently being carted from the train were veritable mountains rising from the mists.
The Earl and Countess Bevelstoke hurried past, tucked tightly into their furs and cloaks as an army of servants and porters—Smythe, included—conducted their things in the direction of an ostentatious coach.
Lord and Lady Bevelstoke had once been counted among her parents’ most intimate society.
Until lately.
Luckily, the train belched another whoosh of steam, further concealing her from their view.
“Alexandra? Lady Alexandra Lane? Can that possibly be you?”
Alexandra flinched at the sound of her name, but broke into a genuine smile at whom she found behind her.
“Julia? Julia Throckmorton?” she greeted.
They embraced with the exuberance of long-parted friends, and stepped apart to examine what the years had done to each other. They’d been kinder to Julia than to her, as her old school chum was bedecked in more pearls and sapphires than a traveling kit warranted.
“How long has it been?” Alexandra asked.
Julia tucked an errant golden ringlet into her stylish cap, pursing her lips together. “Six years, at least,” she recalled. “Our last drink at the café in Boston the summer my husband took us on the grand tour of New England. Then it was de Chardonne before that. Can you believe it’s been ten years?”
“I cannot,” she answered honestly. It felt like only yesterday, and yet another lifetime ago. “Where is Lord Throckmorton? You’re both here for the wedding, I presume?”
Julia’s bright eyes dimmed along with her smile. “Of course, you haven’t heard. You were in Greece two years ago when my husband passed.”
Alexandra gripped her hand. “Oh, Julia, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard, and when I’m in the field, I never read the papers. I’m hopeless at correspondence. Forgive me for not writing.”
“Don’t think of it.” Julia’s smile was tighter when it returned. “I know you’ve enough on your mind as it is, poor dear.” She patted Alexandra’s hand in a manner almost condescending, as though reminding Alexandra of her diminished circumstances without being gauche enough to lend them voice.
Oh, yes, this was why Julia, generally considered a friend, had never been inducted into the Red Rogues. It wasn’t the lack of the red hue in her hair, it was her propensity to be a bit priggish. Not that she had a reason to feel superior, she’d been married off to Lord Walther Throckmorton, the Viscount Leighton. A man twenty years her senior and at least double that in weight due to his excessive drinking.
“Can you imagine, a dowager at my age? Though Lord Throckmorton left me a vulgar fortune,” Julia whispered, increasing the vulgarity by mentioning it. “And now I’m enjoying jaunting about all of Christendom with Lord and Lady Bevelstoke.”
“How lovely for you.” Alexandra hoped she sounded sincere.
If Julia noticed, she didn’t mention. “How mysterious this Duke of Redmayne is. I’ve heard he’s beastly. Have you any idea to whom he’s engaged?”
“I couldn’t possibly say.” Alexandra sighed, already tiring of the gossip. Although she had to admit she’d enjoy Julia’s astonishment when Francesca was revealed as the bride.
They’d never got on.
“Lady Throckmorton,” Lady Bevelstoke called over the increasing storm from the coach. “We really should go, we’ve important society waiting upon our arrival.”
Alexandra didn’t miss the slight emphasis she’d placed upon the word.
“Let’s do catch up.” Julia kissed her on both cheeks and burrowed further into her furs as a footman held an umbrella over her all the way to the coach. “Au revoir.”
The slap of the whip sent the Bevelstoke carriage axles grinding toward one of the oldest, and perhaps grandest, fortresses still standing on British soil.
Castle Redmayne.
Alexandra scanned the storm, wondering if the castle, or the sea, was visible from here on a clear day. The weather was both peculiar and ominous. Evening darkness loomed much earlier than usual. The raucous clouds so heavy, they appeared black in some places. The storm was lively with lightning, and yet an ethereal fog clung to the ground, refusing to be dispelled by the rain. Displaced by the knees of scurrying travelers, it swirled and eddied, lending an elegance to the bustle.
The small village of Maynemouth hunkered nearby. Charming streets lined with businesses built tight to the rails. The attractive crofts, cottages, and stately homes gleamed farther up the hill, so the clamor of the train and the bustle of industry didn’t disturb their infamous Southern tranquility.
A bitter sudden gust drove little needles of rain sideways. As Alexandra and her things had been abandoned at the edge of the awning, the storm and the runoff combined their efforts with the wind to soak her threadbare travel kit clean through.
Do hurry, Cecelia, she urged, opening her umbrella against the onslaught of rain, which disappeared as quickly as it had assaulted her.
Lightning separated the clouds above, forking down toward the train with a brilliant, chaotic snap.
For a magical breath, all occupants of the station appeared frozen in time, respectfully awaiting the thunder before they resumed their business.
Obligingly, a rumble preceded a boom above so brash, Alexandra was convinced that if the awning didn’t conceal the sky, they’d have all borne witness to a collision of the clouds violent enough to render such a roar.
Now that most of the passengers had disembarked for their destinations, a bevy of soggy merchantmen and their workers broke against the train like a wave at low tide. Boxcar doors were thrown open on rusted rails and uncouth voices shouted orders and curses in time to the dance of lifting and lowering merchandise to the ground below the passenger platform.
A ramp was lifted onto a livestock car, and a cadre of workers coaxed four skittish thoroughbred horses down the incline by their leads and out to an awaiting coach.
One voice rose above the tumult, commanding the same rapt attention from rough-hewn men as the thunder.
Alexandra squinted across the platform admiring the horseflesh and hoping to identify which man belonged to the distinctly masculine voice. There’d been a resonance to it. Something sonorous and commanding. It plucked the same vibrations within her as ancient cathedral bells.
“He’s too unsettled,” the voice called from the cavern of the boxcar as two lead ropes were tossed from the gloom. “You two there—keep the tension on the rope until I can get his blinders on.”
With the gentry gone—other than Alexandra—Smythe slithered between the remaining travelers, darting toward the livestock car as though a mighty wonder was inside.
What commanded such curiosity? The beast, or the man?
Smythe snatched the rope and cautiously tugged until it ran out of slack. His resolution almost made up for his lack of stature as he wrapped the rope several times around his forearm and wrist before locking it in his grip.
Alexandra stood too far off to warn him of his folly, and dearly hoped that someone else might be observant enough to do so.
No such luck.
A sturdy footman bent to grasp the rope on the opposite side of the plank, but before he could secure it, another streak of lightning blinded them all.
An inhuman scream rent the storm before the largest stallion Alexandra had ever seen leaped from inside the car in a graceful arc, clearing the ramp altogether.
The moment his hooves met the earth, he leaped and bucked with alarming grace and speed. Pandemonium erupted as the dark bay reared on his hind legs, striking out at whoever was unlucky enough to be in his path.
Several men went down. It all happened so quickly, she couldn’t tell if they’d fallen, been kicked, or merely dove out of the way.
Another figure appeared in the doorway of the railcar, a towering man to match the thunderous voice commanding everyone to get back.
At the sound of the man’s bellow, the stallion stopped its flailing, and simply bolted. Not toward the trainyard or the road, but toward the still-emptying passenger platform not fifteen strides away. Smythe gave a yelp as he was yanked into the air, and an audible crack might have been his shoulder dislocating.
If he was lucky.
Alexandra glanced behind her to ascertain if any passengers were left, spying an elderly couple frantically helping each other toward the cloakroom. Beyond them, a bleary-eyed mother struggled to heave a carpetbag and push a pram. A girl of perhaps five clutched at her skirts, pointing to the advancing stallion with a screech. The mother turned to admonish the girl, but her words died as she spotted the steed. She froze for a precious, petrified moment before dropping her bag and doing what she could to wrestle both children out of the way.
Turning back, Alexandra gaped at how much closer the stallion had galloped in a matter of seconds.
Poor Smythe! Snagged in the rope he’d wound around his arm, he was dragged like a sack of grain through the mud. His head barely avoided the horse’s churning hooves. He worked vigorously to unwind himself, but she couldn’t tell if he made headway.
Alexandra searched the vicinity for help for one more frantic breath. No man could be found on the platform, conductor, constable, workman, or otherwise.
Why did she bother looking? When had a man ever come to her aid?
The septuagenarian couple had almost shuffled to the relative safety of the cloakroom, but the mother had no chance.
An idea occurred to Alexandra as a crack of thunder spurred the creature on.
Sweat bloomed inside her gloves.
Time slowed as the bay stallion gathered his muscles for the small leap from the ground onto the platform.
The metal of horseshoes clattered like hammers against the planks. He shot past Alexandra and aimed his one-ton body toward the terrified mother and the few panicking passengers beyond.
Alexandra dropped her umbrella and leaped toward one of the long ropes trailing behind the beast.
Seizing it in her gloved hands, she set her feet and leaned her hips back, putting all her weight into yanking the horse’s lead around.
The stallion’s head jerked to the side, and with a recalcitrant neigh, his monstrous body followed.
There was no time to think.
Until the whites disappeared from the stallion’s eyes, she had to keep him off balance. She darted toward him, tucking her body next to his long middle as she tugged his lead forcefully around with her, compelling him to turn in a continuous circle.
Belatedly, she noticed the other lead rope was empty. The stallion’s jump somehow scraped Smythe from his lead.
A quick glance found the young porter in the mud, unmoving.
The beast snorted and tossed his head, but after a few circles, his stamping turned to prancing, which she considered a victory.
It occurred to her with a sense of growing alarm that she hadn’t the slightest idea what to do next. The man with the compelling baritone had mentioned blinders. On the next rotation, she snatched up her open black umbrella, and somehow managed to lower it over both their heads, narrowing their entire scope of the world to that of each other.
Alexandra kept her eyes locked with the breathtaking creature, the vapors of her breath keeping time with the deep pants of his flaring nostrils.
“There you are,” she crooned, maintaining their circles, but slowing the pace. “I’m not fond of thunderstorms either, all told. Or crowds of rowdy men. Is it any great wonder you’ve misbehaved?”
The beast snorted his displeasure.
“I agree. You have every right to be cross,” she commiserated. “You didn’t ask to be dragged here in a cramped and cold train. What you need is a dry paddock, some fresh hay, and warm mash to wait out the storm. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”
As pleasant as her one-sided conversation may have appeared, Alexandra wished someone, anyone, would relieve her of the beast. Now that the mother and children were safe, a sudden weakness in her knees threatened an imminent collapse. If she stopped, she’d surely melt into a puddle of quaking nerves.
Both she and the creature tensed when another flash of lightning blinked around them, but the umbrella kept him steady as they continued their haphazard merry-go-round.
She breathed out a sigh, and resumed murmuring nonsensical pleasantries to the stallion. Dim sounds from outside permeated their odd little universe. The chaos of the men below the platform. The crying of an infant. The intensifying patter of rain against the shingled roof.
Heavy boots taking measured steps up the platform stairs.
“Young miss, can you follow the sound of my voice?”
A shiver of chills danced up her spine that had nothing to do with her soaked garments or the sideways rain. Not fear, exactly. Awareness. Every single hair on her body tuned to the direction of that voice.
Young miss? She was neither young nor a miss.
Could she follow him? If Saint Patrick had had a voice like that, he’d not have had to drive the snakes from Ireland. They’d have trailed him willingly.
Followed him to their doom.
Because his was certainly not the voice of a saint, nor anything belonging to the heavenly hosts. The cavernous timbre contained too many shadows. But not the eerie, repellent kind.
The kind that enticed. Tempted. The sort of shadows which shielded criminal deeds and concealed desires.
The most dangerous shadows of all.
Ones she’d learned to avoid in the most violent way possible.
She realized she hadn’t answered his question. “I—I can’t.”
“It’s all right. I’ll come to you and take his other lead. But I’ll need you to give me the umbrella.”
He’d assumed her hesitation was caused by the unpredictable horse, and in truth it should be. Were she any other woman, with any other past, two thousand pounds of horseflesh would, indeed, be more petrifying than two hundred pounds of man.
The truth of it was, she’d rather take her chances with an unruly equine beast, than to approach the man who belonged to the fury contained in the depths of that voice.
A fury imperceptible to most anyone, but not her.
She’d never again be caught unawares. For ten years since, she’d trained herself to listen. To find the thread of vibrations beneath societal niceties and appropriate fallacies.
And beneath his gentle direction lurked an unfathomable bleakness … and a banked ferocity that might singe through her soaked clothing and burn the flesh below.
She was about to reply when the train let out one last shrill from its whistle and a simultaneous release of steam from beneath.
The stallion leaped sideways, away from the white clouds billowing up from the mist. His shoulder knocked Alexandra from her feet and into a post.
The weight of the beast lifted immediately as he bucked away, taking her breath with him.
She crumpled into the steam and fog, her mouth open in a silent cry. Her lungs screamed, but her ribs refused to relent as she gulped for air.
She lay on her side, besieged by pain and panic and an encroaching darkness. Wishing, struggling, praying for a breath. She felt lost in the mist, worried that she’d sink beneath it forever and simply disappear.
Black spots danced in her vision. Or was it black boots and dark hooves?
Sweltering curses rose above terrified neighs.
Creature pitted against creature. Beast against beast.
Eventually, the man won. Of course he won.
Man was ever the better beast.